by Liv Morris
“I am not sure why I just thought of this, but what did you tell The Clinic about leaving? You told them, right?” Harlow asks.
“I used the same excuse James gave for his leave of absence. Family emergency.” I take her hand back in mine, wanting to touch her again. “No worries, okay?”
“I still can’t believe you gave up the clerkship to help me. You’re my knight in shining armor.” Her eyes become cloudy with tears and she brings her lips to my cheek in a soft kiss. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”
“No regrets. Promise.”
My lips speak the truth of my heart. Years from now, I will look back and know helping Harlow when she needed me was the right decision—the only decision. Like the dream I had of rescuing her from the fire, I would be held accountable if I had ignored the abuse she suffered through daily, and potentially for the rest of her life. Walking away was never an option for me. I will always believe my trip to Rochester was meant to be a rescue mission—hers.
We land at Chicago’s O’Hare and I rent an SUV. Harlow doesn’t seem to object to me doing this for us. She let me purchase her tickets here too, though she promised to pay me back. She doesn’t have a credit card yet and they’re necessary in this world of online commerce. Setting up a bank account tops the list of things she needs to accomplish. I have a feeling she will be doing that this week in Chicago instead of Rochester.
But our first stop here will be her grandmother’s house. We are sitting in the car in the airport’s parking lot with the engine idling. Harlow pulls her mother’s letter from her bag and unfolds the sheets of paper to locate her grandmother’s home address.
We searched the Internet to confirm her grandmother still lived at the address. It matched one we found on the web’s local white pages in Park Ridge. It’s a city close to the airport, which works out great, since we don’t have a flipping clue about Chicago’s suburbs.
“Crazy to think your mother was raised in the same hometown as Hilary Clinton,” I say. We dug up some basic information on the web about Park Ridge. It’s an affluent city. One site called it a bedroom community where people live, play, and commute for work.
“Harrison Ford, too. My mother always had a thing for Indiana Jones. Maybe that’s why, hometown boy and all.” Harlow giggles in a higher pitch than normal. She’s anxious about meeting her grandmother and trying to put on a strong face for me.
“Nervous?” I ask.
“Just a little,” she sighs. “No, more like terrified.”
“Hey, it’s okay. I’d feel the same way.” I reach across the console and take her hand. “Remember, once the shock wears off, I bet your grandmother will be so thankful you found her. Just like you are feeling about her.”
“I hope you’re right.” Harlow gives me a weak smile.
“You can do this. You’re stronger than you realize.” I want to encourage her and build up her confidence, try to repair the damage done by James.
“You think?” she asks.
“I know,” I say with a nod, my voice firm.
“A week ago, I was worried about my wedding. Fretting it all, to be honest. And today, I’m going to meet my grandmother. In Chicago.” She giggles, and this time, her laugh is mixed with joy instead of fear.
“With a sexy guy who has a heart of gold,” she says, her words barely above a whisper, like I wasn’t supposed to actually hear them.
“That guy feels the same about you.” I tap the tip of her nose and try to keep the intensity out of my gaze, burying my true feelings. They’ve strayed from just friends to a whole lot more, but my attraction to Harlow is rooted deep inside me. So far down, I can’t find the place where it changed from her friend to hopeful lover.
Lover.
It seems like such an odd word, and one I’ve never used to describe myself. But my feelings for Harlow aren’t based on lust, and it’s too soon to use any other “L” word besides like. Though, that “L” word doesn’t fit my feelings completely either.
Is there a place between like and love? If there is, I’m standing in the middle of it.
I shake my head and come back to the moment. I’ll have time to figure out things between us. For now, my focus is on Harlow, and helping her however she needs me.
“Tell me the address and I’ll enter it into the GPS.” Harlow gives me the location and we head out.
Most of the homes we’ve passed in Park Ridge are stately two-story types with large, manicured lawns. The kind of places requiring money. After a few turns, we arrive on her grandmother’s street. It’s lined with modest, well-kept ranches. I slow down so Harlow can check out the houses.
The GPS tells us we are approaching the location on the left. I look over and see Harlow clutching the letter in her hands while worrying her bottom lip. She scans each house to see if the numbers on them match the one in her letter.
“There it is,” she says, pointing to the house while bouncing in her seat.
I pull over to the curb in front of the house. The drapes are closed in the windows facing the street and there isn’t a car parked in the driveway. If I had to guess, I’d say no one is home. I kill the engine and wait.
“This is it.” Harlow means more than our arrival. It’s time for her to meet her past and build a new future. She glances over at me, her eyes begging me for strength.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“Part of me wants to run up to the door. Another wants to stay hiding out in the car like a chicken shit.” She takes a couple deep breaths and grabs the door handle, but her hand stills.
A sudden movement catches my eye and I look to find the garage door opening.
“Look.” I lift my chin toward the house and Harlow’s gaze follows.
“Someone’s home,” she squeaks.
We sit in thick silence as a woman steps out of the garage. She’s older, likely in her sixties, but it’s her blond hair that gives her identity away. It matches the hair color of the beautiful woman sitting beside me.
Harlow turns back toward me with tears in her eyes. A lone one streams down her face and I wipe it away.
“It’s her,” she breathes.
The woman, who has to be Harlow’s grandmother, eyes our SUV, but likely can’t see inside due to the tinted windows. She walks to the front of the house, turns on a garden hose, and begins to water yellow, blooming plants.
“My heart is racing,” Harlow says, glancing back at me with a hopeful smile on her face. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ve got this, babe.”
She bends over the center console and plants a hurried kiss on my lips. “Thanks, Sin.”
Harlow exits the car and the woman turns when she hears the sound of the door shutting. The woman lifts her hand to her forehead as a shield from the sun.
Harlow heads up the short driveway and glances back at me over her shoulder. She can’t see what I’m doing, but for the second time in my life, I’m praying from my heart.
The first time was when I held my dying friend in the Australian desert.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Harlow
The woman, who I hope is my grandmother, turns toward me as I close the door to the SUV. Her garden hose spreads water over the grass by her feet, the pretty flowers she was watering forgotten. I bring my hand to my chest in hopes of calming my heart, but it doesn’t help. Ignoring my fears, I start walking toward her with more faith than bravery.
I try to smile at her to lessen any worry she might have about a stranger approaching, but the familiar lump in my throat has returned. She assesses me with her head tilted and a hand shielding her face from the sun, making shadows. Her golden, shoulder-length hair, so much like mine, shimmers in the bright sun. We are a similar height and build. I wonder if she recognizes herself in me, like I do in her.
“Hello,” I say as I leave the paved driveway and start to walk onto her grassy lawn. “My name’s Harlow.”
“Can I help you?” she asks, looking from me back
to the black SUV, a slight hesitation in her voice. How do I respond?
“I don’t mean to startle you,” I say, hoping to put her at ease. I stop about ten feet from her in the new spring grass. Close enough so she can hear me, but far enough not to invade a stranger’s comfort zone. “Actually, you don’t know me, but you may know someone dear to me. Marie McMasters.”
The woman gasps and her eyes grow wide. “It’s impossible. She’s been gone for over twenty years.” Her tone is edged in pain, and at this moment, I know I am standing in front of my grandmother, Margaret McMasters. She looks closer at me with watery eyes, trying to detect whether I’m lying or telling the truth. I meet her stare with soft, caring eyes.
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
“How do you know my daughter and me?” she asks, confirming she is my grandmother once and for all.
“Here, I have a photo of her.” I reach into my purse and pull out the one piece of evidence able to back up my claims.
I found it yesterday in the box James hid in the safe. It’s a mother and daughter photograph we took when I was fourteen years old. My mother fussed over my dress and hair for the shoot. I was in an awkward teen stage and hated the dress she picked out. The length of the hem made my skinny legs look like sticks, but she won and I wore it anyway. It was our first and last portrait. I wish I found more photos yesterday, but at least James kept this one.
“Why would you have a photo of her?” Water pools around her feet from the hose, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Nothing else matters when someone mentions a child you haven’t heard from in twenty years.
“Is this some kind of cruel joke?” she asks, but not in a confrontational way, more like a fear I might be exposing her to more hurt, which I am. And it breaks my heart. I’m sure she’s lived a lifetime’s worth of pain in the last twenty years.
“Here,” I say, extending the photo out to her. I take a couple steps closer and she reaches out to take the offered photo.
I glance over at the SUV and see Sin leaning against the passenger side door with his ankles crossed at his feet. He is all man, so strong and handsome. From his broad shoulders to the big, proud grin taking up nearly his entire face. But it’s his heart and soul that calls to me, freely giving me strength, and I need a bucketful of it now.
I try to force a smile back at him, but it’s no use. An overwhelming sadness washes over me knowing I have terrible news to share with my grandmother. It’s a mother’s nightmare, and still mine.
Margaret looks at the photo for long seconds. Dropping the hose at her feet, she collapses to her knees while clenching the photo to her chest. Her body begins to quake with sobs—the inconsolable kind stored up for decades.
I stand paralyzed, wondering what I should do. I have this overwhelming need to hug and comfort her, so I join her on the wet ground, placing an arm around her shoulder.
“You’re the young girl?” she rasps, looking closer at me.
I’ve grown up since this photo was taken, but eight years hasn’t changed me that much. I am still the same blonde girl in a more filled out body. The only difference is my scars. No one can see them, since they’re etched into my heart.
“I’m Harlow, Marie’s daughter.” I nod.
“I can’t believe this.” Margaret shakes her head like the thought is too hard to comprehend. “You’re my granddaughter?”
A small smile breaks through the tears streaming down her face. I reach into my purse, hand her a tissue, and keep one for myself. I came prepared.
“I am.” Though Margaret and I are likely forty years apart, we match in some strange familial way. There is no denying who I am and who she is to me. I have found family at last and my heart wants to sing.
“Where do you two live?” Two. The word prickles. Of course, she thinks my mother is still alive. Why wouldn’t she? No mother wants to entertain the opposite.
“I flew in from Rochester this morning. I don’t know where to begin.” I take a deep breath to clear my thoughts. “I only found out about you yesterday. I found a letter she wrote before she was …“I pause and she eyes me with worry.
“What do you mean ‘she was’? You’re talking about her like she’s gone.” Her voice cracks with emotion.
I nod my head in a silent answer as fear reflects in her eyes.
“What happened to Marie?” Margaret asks. Dread twists in my heart. How can I tell her my mother was murdered? I hate the word. I choke every time I try to say it. It’s final and senseless and brutal.
“She died in January. She was killed.” The words are like a knife to my heart. Unbearable pain crosses Margaret’s face.
“Killed?” Margaret asks with a desperate need for the truth. “How?”
“Shot,” I whisper. Then she died in my arms.
Her weeping turns into quiet moans. A haunting sound comes from deep inside her as she begins to mourn. Years of hoping and praying for my mother are dashed within a split second.
“I am so sorry,” I say, trying my best to console her, but she continues to cry.
A movement beside me catches my eye as Sin moves toward the house. He walks up to where the garden house connects with the house and turns off the water.
Margaret and I are kneeling in a puddle of cold water. My shoes are soaked along with her pants. Sin turns toward me and I mouth a thank you to him. He nods, his face reflecting the entire scene: somber.
Sin walks to Margaret’s side and stands next to her, his arms relaxed at his sides. Feeling his presence, Margaret turns her head upward to look at him.
“Hi,” Sin says in a soothing tone.
“Who are you?” Margaret asks, her tears subsiding to a few sniffles. I am sure it will come back in waves. Grief ebbs and flows like the sea.
“He’s the reason I found you. I wouldn’t be here without him.” I surround my words with how grateful I feel for all Sin has done for me. My debt to him will never be repaid, but he’s the kind of man who will only give more instead of wanting to collect from me.
“I’m Sinclair Elliott, ma’am. A friend of Harlow’s.” He stretches his hand out toward Margaret. “Let me help you off the wet ground.”
Margaret looks from me to him, her eyes asking for my reassurance. I smile at her. Sin is the rock we both need. She sighs and takes his hand. Sin helps her rise to her feet, steadying her by the elbow until she’s firmly standing. I rise up next to her. Pieces of dirt and grass cover her water-soaked pants and my shins, but neither of us seems to care.
“You ladies have some catching up to do. I’m going to drive around town. Grab a cup of coffee and call my grandmother.” Sin gives me a quick kiss on the cheeks, then stuffs his hands in his front pockets. “Harlow, call or text when you’re ready for me to come back. It was very nice to meet you, Margaret.”
“You, too,” Margaret says with a small nod. She appears to be in shock from this entire ordeal. Like I was the night my mother died.
“Thanks, Sin,” I say, and we both watch Sin walk away toward the car.
I have learned two things about Sin since meeting him: he has the most beautiful, selfless heart of anyone I’ve ever known, and he is a man I could fall in love with. Plus, he smells divine.
After Sin’s car is no longer in sight, Margaret takes me inside her house. When I walk over the threshold, I wonder how many times my mother did this very same thing. Like her pearl necklace, her childhood home connects me to her. We pass through a pristine family room with a cheery floral couch and two chairs sitting on each side. Pillows are scattered and soft throw blankets are draped on the couch.
“Let’s go to the kitchen and talk,” Margaret says, giving me a sad smile. “We have years to catch up on.” Her voice cracks at the end.
Sunny yellow walls invite me into her kitchen and make me want to stay in its warmth forever. This feeling is everything I’ve wished for in a grandmother and never dared to dream. With each step that I’ve taken, farther into her home, I feel the bond
I’ve longed for wrapping around me like Sin’s strong arms. Comfort and peace fill me.
“Have a seat, dear,” Margaret says, pointing to one of the chairs at the square wood kitchen table.
I do as she asks and she joins me at the table. Instead of sitting across from me, she takes a chair to my side. I rest my hands on the tabletop and she covers one of my hands with hers. It’s the first touch from my grandmother and that silly lump is back in my throat. I blink my eyes, expecting to wake up from a dream, but Margaret looks at me with complete love radiating from her eyes. I’m not dreaming. She’s real. My heart is so full, it may burst.
“Would you like something to drink? I can brew a fresh pot of coffee.” Margaret releases my hand and scoots to the edge of her chair.
“I’d love some coffee. If it’s not too much trouble.” Margaret scoffs with a laugh.
“Dear, I’d fly to Columbia and buy the coffee beans for you if I could.” She stares at me without blinking. “You’re my only grandchild.” She pauses and glances down for a second. “My other daughter was unable to have children. You’re the answer to so many prayers.”
We both begin to tear up at the impact of her words and who I am to her. She needs to know who she is to me, too.
“Before today, my mother was the only family I had. Now …” I pause for a second, “I have you. Thanks for wanting me.”
“Always. Tell me about my Marie. Start at the beginning if you can. I need to understand how you came to find me and what happened to her. Why she was killed …” Her eyes close and a shiver shakes her shoulders.
“We lived in Rochester. I was born there.” Margaret sits back in her chair, our coffee long forgotten.
I begin the story of my life with my mother from my earliest memory, playing in the snow on a wintery day. I might have been around three. My mother and I built a small snowman and made snow angels.
I share bits and pieces of my childhood with her, all of them revolving around my mother. How we didn’t have two dimes to rub together at times, but my mother loved me and I loved her. I was the more sensible one of the two of us, definitely the more boring one. She was spontaneous, where I was cautious. As I grew older, I was the voice of reason and worry, careful to watch out for her.
